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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28740453">she dreamt of him</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/unspeakable3/pseuds/unspeakable3'>unspeakable3</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Walburga [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Black Family Drama (Harry Potter), Black Family Feels (Harry Potter), Black Family-centric (Harry Potter), Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Walburga Black, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Walburga Black's A+ Parenting, Walburga Black-centric</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:34:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,267</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28740453</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/unspeakable3/pseuds/unspeakable3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Orion Black died a fortnight ago. Between dreams, memories, her son and a Grim, Walburga persists.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Orion Black/Walburga Black, Regulus Black &amp; Walburga Black, Sirius Black &amp; Walburga Black</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Walburga [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2114058</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>68</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>/r/FanFiction Prompt Challenge #21 / January 2021, HPFC Spring Fling 2021</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>she dreamt of him</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>Of what use are pedigrees, or to be thought of noble blood, or the display of family portraits, O Ponticus?</p>
  <p>- Juvenal, <i>Satires</i></p>
</div>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>(PRESENT)</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Orion Black died a fortnight ago. </p><p>Walburga had spent the intervening days, hours, minutes focusing on the trivial and the inconsequential. She whiled away an entire afternoon with the tailor, flipping through fabric samples to choose the perfect shade of black for her mourning gown. She spent hours finding the most suitable mantlepieces and end tables on which to display the endless flow of bouquets and condolences. She lost count of the number of times she had ordered Kreacher to ensure that every mirror and every portrait had been turned over to face the wall, to prevent her husband’s soul from remaining trapped here on this wretched mortal plane. </p><p>She imagined that if she could distract herself from the reality of the situation for long enough then there wouldn’t be any space left inside her for grieving his untimely death. For missing him. For thinking him supremely selfish for leaving her here, alone, in the midst of a war she had no hope of understanding (no matter how many times she had argued the contrary), to try to steer their weak and indecisive son to safety. </p><p>She imagined that if she could simply focus on being the Mistress of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, the hostess to the countless bodies that traipsed in and out of Grimmauld Place to tend to Orion’s body and watch over it each night, to replace the sprigs of rosemary and yew in his shroud and ward off those most undignified of odours, then she would be so exhausted when she dragged herself to bed that she would quickly succumb to sleep.</p><p>She did not.</p><p>Every night was spent dreaming of Orion. She dreamt of him alive and flush with youth, somehow growing more handsome as he aged, even in death as he stared up at her, glassy-eyed and unseeing. She dreamt of him waiting for her somewhere beyond the veil with his arms outstretched, calling for her. She dreamt of him holding her close to the warmth of his chest and awoke alone, cold and sobbing, the ghost of his fingertips on her goosefleshed arms. </p><p>It was customary for a widowed witch to cut her hair short, to either burn it as an offering or bury it with her husband. But Walburga could not bring herself to do it.</p><p>Orion had always loved her hair. As children, he had cursed her brothers for pulling it. As adults, he could barely keep himself from touching it. He would brush it, stroke it, caress it almost reverently; he would hold it in his hands and let it slide through his fingers like silken thread, like a stream swollen by the summer rain. </p><p>She knew that he would prefer her hair, her crowning glory, to remain on her head and be admired. He would not want it to be shorn and buried with his corpse, where it could only lie limp and forgotten, to be devoured by worms. </p><p>Her decision made Regulus unhappy, of course. He had looked askance at her each morning at breakfast as her hair remained tumbling down her back, worn defiantly loose instead of piled on her head in its customary twists. </p><p>Regulus had always had too much faith in traditions and formalities and customs. But since he could not summon the courage to speak to her and voice his concerns, she merely glared at him over the tea service until he looked away, cowed, his cheeks flushed. </p><p>And now mother and son stood side-by-side, each perfectly still, on the front steps of Number Twelve. They watched the pall-bearers - cousins, siblings, uncles - raise Orion Black’s coffin onto the thestral-drawn cart. </p><p>Walburga couldn’t help but wonder how differently this day might have unfolded if Sirius had not betrayed her. Would there even have been a funeral? Might Orion had lived, if his son had not turned his back on his birthright?</p><p>She glanced sideways at Regulus from beneath her veil and marked the set of his weak jaw, the unsteady rise and fall of his narrow chest, the too-frequent blinking of his eyes, framed by those girlish lashes. </p><p>He had proven to be a terrible second-choice heir, no matter what the men of the family had to say about it. How could any of them possibly hope that he would fill his father’s shoes? How could they still be so deep in denial, three years on from Sirius’s betrayal?</p><p>She sniffed and turned back to the thestrals, dark shadows in the dying evening light. How had their bloodline come to this? How had everything she had envisaged for the future of their family come to rest on the bony shoulders of a cowardly, feeble, runt of a boy?</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>(PAST)</b>
</p><p> </p><p>The bedroom door creaked open. </p><p>Walburga squeezed her eyes closed as the footsteps approached and wriggled further beneath the bedcovers, hugging her legs, biting down on her knees in an attempt to disguise the sound of her sobbing. </p><p>“Regulus is asleep,” Orion told her, his voice far too calm for the situation at hand. </p><p>There was a flickering orange behind her eyelids, a soft <em> thunk </em>as a candle was placed on the bedside table. The bed dipped, marking the first time Orion had joined her, in her bedroom, at night, in years. </p><p>She felt the presence of his hand hovering above her back long before it settled there, the duvet and her nightgown separating skin from skin. It was a heavy weight, reassuring, though lacking the warmth it had once held.</p><p>“I shall write to the Potters tomorrow morning,” he said softly. “That is where Regulus thinks he will have gone.” </p><p>She clambered up onto her knees, knocking his hand aside, not caring that her hair was in a wild tangle or that her makeup was smudged across her face, only caring about <em> this </em> , this injustice, this betrayal, this <em> humiliation </em>.</p><p>“No!” </p><p>“Allow me to fix this, Walburga. You know how the boys are. Sirius will have said something dramatic, and Regulus will have misunderstood and become rather fatalistic about it all.”</p><p>“No,” she repeated, shaking her head. “He has made his decision.” </p><p>Orion sighed and lifted his hand again, as though to smooth back her hair. She flinched from him.</p><p>“<em> No </em>,” she insisted. </p><p>“Walburga, he is a teenager. A reckless, impulsive, stubborn teenager. I am told this is what teenagers do: their entire purpose is to push boundaries, to test their parents.” </p><p>“This is what <em> Andromeda </em>did,” she hissed. </p><p>Her pulse pounded fiercely at her temple, commanding all of her attention, forcing out any capacity she might have had for compassion, or understanding, or logic.</p><p>Orion regarded her for a moment. She glared back at him, her hands curled into fists at her sides. </p><p>“Walburga—” </p><p>“He has betrayed us. He has betrayed <em> me </em>. He has made his decision.” </p><p>“I don’t think—” </p><p>“No,” she snapped, “you don’t think, do you? And now it is too late. You have driven him away, Orion, and he will not come back.” </p><p>“He is fifteen years old—”</p><p>“I don’t care! I wouldn’t care if he were five, or fifty - he has chosen another family. The <em> Potters </em> - they are welcome to him - blood-traitors - precisely the disgusting sort of people with the disgusting sort of <em> morals </em> that that— that <em> boy </em>finds so appealing.” </p><p>“Walburga—“ </p><p>“It was all coming to this, don’t you see? Ever since his Sorting, ever since those <em> beasts </em>clawed their way into him, corrupting him, turning him against me!” </p><p>“Walburga, please—” </p><p>“No!” she cried. “It is <em> done! </em>I will not allow a traitor back into our midst. I will not allow him to humiliate us a second time - I will not hand him the rope with which to hang us! He has made his decision. And now he must live with the consequences.” </p><p>Orion gave a heavy sigh and rubbed his face. “Would you like me to stay with you, tonight?” </p><p>“No.” </p><p>“Very well.” He rose from the bed. “We shall continue this discussion in the morning.” </p><p>“I will speak of it no more.” </p><p>He sighed again. “Goodnight, Walburga.” </p><p>She threw herself back down onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling, glaring. There would be no further discussion. She had made up her mind. Sirius had forsaken the family, his name, his birthright - everything they had raised him to be. He had forsaken <em> her </em>. She would not allow him to waltz back in as if nothing had happened.</p><p><em> No one </em>betrayed her and lived to tell the tale. Not even her first-born son. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>(PRESENT)</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Regulus climbed unsteadily into the carriage and paused. Walburga stared back at him as he looked at her, briefly, as though he was daring to think about sitting down beside her. He thought better of it and took the seat opposite. </p><p>She wondered if he was stupid enough to think that the clopping of the thestrals’ hooves, the turning of the carriage’s wheels, the rattling of the door as they traversed London’s cobbled streets, would be sufficient to mask his ragged, irregular breathing. She wondered if he thought that if he clasped his hands in his lap and sat very still she would not notice how emotional he was. </p><p>She noticed everything. She always had. She supposed he thought that he took after his father, stoic and inscrutable. She supposed everyone must think themselves stoic, in comparison to Sirius. </p><p>But while Sirius had been emotionally volatile, wild and temperamental, Regulus was always - apart from that one, horrifying exception - utterly predictable. </p><p>And so she watched him. She watched him, and she hated him. She hated that his weakness and fragility meant that <em> she </em> was the one, yet again, who had to remain calm and restrained, who had to give orders to Kreacher and the other elves, to accept their acquaintances’ condolences, to listen to the relentless and useless <em> advice </em>from the rest of their family. </p><p>Regulus was head of the family now, in name, but it was <em>she </em>who was doing all of the work. </p><p>Orion’s mother, more soft-hearted than ever after the death of her son, said that it was only natural for a boy to need time to mourn his father. But what of a wife’s need to mourn her husband? Regulus might have lost his father, but Walburga had lost her husband, her confidante, half of her soul, her tether to reality these past decades. </p><p>Regulus had not known Orion. Neither had Melania, nor Arcturus, nor <em> any </em>of them. No one had known Orion like she had. What did Regulus have to mourn - what did anyone have to mourn, in comparison to her?</p><p>Regulus was supposed to be the culmination of countless generations of Blacks: Regulus and Sirius both, her twice-Black sons. Every big decision in her life, in her parents’ lives, had been leading up to those boys’ births. All those years spent patiently planning, waiting, subtly reminding Orion what it was - <em> who </em>it was - that he really wanted. </p><p>And for what?</p><p>She could not help but feel as though they must have made an error along the way. But she was a Black - a Black did not err. No… it was far more likely that they had been cursed by one of their many enemies, by another family jealous of their successes. Druella, perhaps. Druella had always been jealous of Walburga’s good fortune. </p><p>How else was she to explain Sirius, who had been born with entirely too much Black blood in his veins, and Regulus, who had never seemed to have enough? How else was she to explain how her first son had abandoned her? How else was she to explain how her second son looked to be on the verge of a breakdown whenever she so much as looked at him?</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>(PAST)</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“It is merely a hat, Walburga.” </p><p>“A <em> sentient </em>hat!” </p><p>“Well, yes, but there is no need for these histrionics. It is still just a hat.”</p><p>“A hat that held my son’s future in its— its— its <em> brim </em>, and put him with those— those…” </p><p>“Walburga!” </p><p>He caught her as she swooned, his hands strong at her back and around her waist, and lowered her gently onto the chaise longue. He attempted to prise the letter out of her grip but she clenched her fingers tighter around the thick parchment, terrified at what this meant. </p><p>There were footsteps on the landing. When she looked up, she saw her younger son peering hesitantly around the doorframe.</p><p>“Papa?” he asked.</p><p>“It’s alright, Regulus. Your mother is tired. Go and play with Kreacher.” </p><p>Regulus retreated and Walburga stared up at her husband. “What will we do?” she begged. “He cannot… my son cannot be expected to associate with mudbloods and blood-traitors and— you know how easily influenced he is!”</p><p>“We will do nothing.” </p><p>“He has been sorted into <em> Gryffindor! </em> ” She struggled into an upright position, batting away Orion’s hands as he hovered over her arms, her back, her forehead. “They will turn him against me! I cannot accept this - I will not allow my son to have his head turned by these— these <em> radicals! </em>” </p><p>“We must accept it, Walburga. We cannot be seen to interfere in the workings of the school.” </p><p>“But he is my <em> son! </em>” </p><p>“Our son, dear one. Surely you knew that this might be a possibility?” </p><p>“But <em> Gryffindor </em>—!” she whined, flopping backwards again. </p><p>“It could be worse,” Orion mused. “He could have been sent to Hufflepuff.” </p><p>Walburga let out an incomprehensible wail and covered her eyes, unable - or unwilling - to imagine the horror.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>(PRESENT)</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“Mother?” </p><p>Her eyes stung from the smoke, from the brightness of the flames. She kept staring forwards and refused to blink, terrified that if she did so then the tears would start falling. And once they did, she wasn’t sure if she would be able to stop them. </p><p>“Mother, we ought to go back home.” </p><p>The fragrant herbs stuffed into every hollow of the branches and twigs stacked onto the funeral pyre did little to mask the stench of her husband’s body burning. The air hung heavy with it, potent. She could practically feel it seeping into her clothes and hair and skin, but still, she did not look away. Still, she did not blink. </p><p>“Mother, please,” Regulus insisted. “They’ll be waiting for us, at the house.” </p><p>“Then go,” she said, her voice hoarse. </p><p>“But—“ </p><p>“You are master of that house now, Regulus. Start acting like it.” </p><p>He gasped loudly and stepped backwards, almost knocking into her. Walburga turned in irritation, intending to scold him for interrupting her last precious moments with her husband. But her eyes landed on what his must have done, to elicit the shock: a Grim, its black fur ruffling in the twilight breeze, sat perfectly still and watching them. </p><p>“Go,” she repeated, her heart pounding. “Go, Regulus. Go now.” </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>(PAST)</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“Stop fidgeting, Sirius.” </p><p>“But Mama, it’s <em> itchy </em>.” </p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “Those robes are made from the finest Hidebehind hair one can buy.” </p><p>“What?!” Regulus squeaked. </p><p>Walburga sighed and rolled her eyes. They had been posing for their first family portrait for merely an hour, yet Sirius could not stop fidgeting and Regulus could not stop <em> trembling </em>and she would much rather be sitting in the parlour with an endless supply of wine. </p><p>“Have courage, Regulus,” said Orion, gripping the boy’s shoulder. “A Hidebehind cannot hurt you if it is dead.” </p><p>“That’s what <em> you </em>think,” Sirius said snidely. </p><p>Sirius had developed a new fondness for questioning absolutely everything that either of his parents said, no matter whether he genuinely believed it to be true or not, and Walburga did not find it amusing <em> at all. </em></p><p>“Will it bite me?” Regulus asked in a whisper, tugging at his own collar. </p><p>“Of course it won’t, foolish boy,” Walburga snapped at him. </p><p>Regulus flinched away from her, huddling closer to his father. </p><p>“Your robes cannot bite you,” he said, somewhat gentler than his wife. “Robes do not have teeth, do they?” </p><p>“That’s what <em> you </em>think.” </p><p>“Sirius,” Orion warned.</p><p>“What?” </p><p>“Stand still and be quiet, or you will not be permitted to visit your Uncle Alphard this weekend.” </p><p>Walburga loathed how the threat of being unable to see his favourite uncle seemed to be the only thing that could keep Sirius from misbehaving these days. But she loathed his squirming and his fidgeting and his childish sighs far more, so she supposed she would have to make do with such threats. For now. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>(PRESENT)</b>
</p><p> </p><p>She hated the lot of them. Sycophants. Hypocrites. Spreading through her halls and drinking her best wine and filling her son’s ears with nonsense about what a good man his father had been, what a wise, clever, <em> noble </em>man, as if those weren’t exactly the same false platitudes they had bequeathed upon the deceased Grantham Greengrass last month, or Marmaduke Nott the month before that. </p><p>She knew that, once they had taken their fill of drink and tittle-tattle, they would return to their homes and sit around the fire while they gossiped about her and made plans to encroach on her territory, to steal her gold, her house, her <em> status </em>. </p><p>Blood-traitors had stolen her first son. Blood-supremacists were stealing her second. Her husband had been taken from her, too. What else did they want from her? What more did she have to give?</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>(PAST)</b>
</p><p> </p><p>All through the night heavy rain lashed at the window panes, as the wind howled down the chimneys and whipped through every nook and cranny inside the walls of the old house. There was a new moon that night, a time for beginnings and infinite possibilities, and the stars were concealed behind thick clouds, leaving guttering candles as the only source of light in the room. </p><p>But Walburga didn’t need light. She didn’t need warmth, or comfort, or the tedious chatter of the asinine women who had crowded into her room to witness her glory.</p><p>Thunder rolled, fighting for dominance against her cries. One of the aunts grumbled about the weather. <em> Idiot </em>; the storm was a greater portent than Walburga could ever have imagined. </p><p>And there could be no greater omen than the heaven-sent thunderbolt that cracked into the tall oak tree outside the bedroom window, splitting it clean in two and filling the room with a supernatural light at the exact moment that the Black heir was wrenched out of her. </p><p>Sirius Orion Black came into the world screaming louder than his mother, louder than the thunderstorm raging outside, louder even than the clamouring of the women crowding around the bed. And he hadn’t stopped screaming since.</p><p>The house-elf tried to soothe the baby, but Walburga ordered it back to the kitchen. Her perfect son did not need soothing. He could scream as loudly as he liked, for as long as he liked: the world was his to bend to his will. </p><p>“Healthy lungs,” said her mother, raising her voice over Sirius’s cries. “He will sit on the Wizengamot and dispense justice.”</p><p>“Nonsense, Irma,” said her sister-in-law. She was tickling Sirius’s chin, to little effect. “He will occupy himself with raising this Noble House to further greatness, just as his father and his grandfather and all their fathers have before him.” </p><p>Walburga snorted. Oh <em> yes </em> , they all loved to talk about sons, didn’t they? But was it not the witches of the family who had raised their name to greatness? Was it not <em> they </em> who had birthed the heirs? Was it not <em> she </em>who had birthed this miraculous boy-child, a Black twice over? Her darling boy; he would want for nothing. </p><p>She watched, her dark eyes glinting with resentment, as Sirius was taken from her and passed from witch to witch. Each murmured blessings of strength and intelligence, dexterity and resourcefulness, good looks and charm. He had no need of their blessings - the concentration of Black blood coursing through his veins was blessing enough - but she gracefully allowed the women their little traditions.  </p><p>Night had fallen once more before Orion managed to finally expel the women from the house. Walburga sank down into her pillows and held Sirius closely against her chest as she closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of her husband readying himself for bed: the rustling as he removed and folded his clothes, the tapping as he placed his watch and rings on the dressing table, the gentle humming noise he made as he brushed his hair. </p><p>He slid into the bed beside her, taking care not to disturb the baby, and then the bedroom door opened. </p><p>“No,” Walburga said. </p><p>The elf stood in the doorway and glanced between its master and its mistress, unsure. </p><p>“Walburga—“ </p><p>“No,” she repeated, adamant. “He is my son. I want him here, with me.” </p><p>“He is <em> our </em>son.” </p><p>She huffed, but Orion merely smiled and pressed a kiss to the side of her head. He dismissed the elf with a gesture. </p><p>“I don’t want a nurse-maid, either,” she said. </p><p>“I know.” </p><p>“I mean it, Orion. I will not allow my son to be raised on the polluted milk of some mudblood.” </p><p>“I know. Everything shall be exactly as you wish it to be, Walburga.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>(PRESENT)</b>
</p><p> </p><p>The Grim had followed them home. Stalked them. Hunted them. </p><p>Walburga, holding a flickering candle in her trembling hand, stood at her bedroom window and watched it. </p><p>“You will not have my son,” she whispered fiercely. “You ill-omened beast - you will not have my Regulus.” </p><p>The Grim lifted its head, its moon-bright eyes piercing her heart. </p><p>“You will not have him,” she repeated, as though she thought that the more times she said it the longer she could keep the beast away. “He is mine. <em> Mine</em>. You will not take him from me.” </p><p>The Grim barked - a loud, sharp, bitter bark that rattled the window and reverberated against the walls and echoed in Walburga’s mind, shattering her fragile defences. The candle spluttered. She gasped and her free hand slipped to grip the windowsill. </p><p>“You cannot take him,” she begged. “He is all I have left. Take me, instead. I will die for him - I don’t care how - just - you <em>must</em>let Regulus live.” </p><p>The Grim shook its fur and turned, disappearing into the hedgerows that lined the park opposite Number Twelve. Walburga’s candle extinguished and plunged her into darkness. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>(PAST)</b>
</p><p> </p><p>She tilted her head back to gaze at the ceiling as they waltzed across the ballroom floor. This would be her ballroom one day, she thought, smiling to herself. Its ceiling, painted in shades of darkest blue and indigo to mimic the night sky, studded with sparkling diamonds to represent the stars, would be hers, too. </p><p>Lesser witches worked themselves into hysterics over Hogwarts’ enchanted ceiling, but she knew that this one, in the ballroom of Orion’s grandfather’s country pile, was far superior. After all, she could gaze up at this ceiling, no matter the time of day or night, and watch Orion’s constellation twinkling down at her.</p><p>“Walburga.” </p><p>His voice was stiffer than usual. She tilted her head back down and saw that his expression, too, was tighter and more guarded, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance, above her head. </p><p>“Orion,” she replied, amused that she could still have this effect on him after so many years and so many dances. </p><p>She had never particularly liked dancing. Or, at least, she told herself that she had never liked dancing and only suffered through the charade as a way to be closer to Orion, to make sure that no other witch - Druella Rosier sprung to mind - could get near enough to dig her claws into him and ruin Walburga’s greatest plans. </p><p>But perhaps she had grown to tolerate dancing. There was something in the music, perhaps, or the festive atmosphere. Or, more likely, in the way Orion held her, the way he made her heart quicken and her veins flood with warmth. </p><p>She watched his throat bob as he swallowed and his silver-grey eyes, so much brighter than her own, dart around the room. She could tell he was nervous. She bit the inside of her lip and felt her stomach twist in anticipation - was it time, finally? She imagined that she could feel the pulse in his thumb, pressed against the back of her hand, through her silk gloves. Perhaps she <em> could </em>feel it. </p><p>“Walburga…” he began again. “Walburga, it would displease me to see you dance with any other this evening.” He glanced at her, and away again just as fast. He cleared his throat. “Not just this evening,” he amended, “but ever.” </p><p>Walburga had always taken great pride in the fact that she was not some pathetic girl ready to shriek or faint or dissolve into fits of idiotic giggles the instant a man showed her the slightest bit of attention. And it delighted her enormously to know that when Orion had finally - <em> finally! </em>- fallen into her net, carefully woven over years of interactions such as this, that she did not falter or swoon or otherwise act inelegantly. </p><p>She acted like a Black. Like the best of the Blacks, in all ways. </p><p>But she did grow very warm, and her fingers, at his shoulder and in his hand, did twitch. </p><p>He noticed. Of course he did; he always noticed every subtle or not-so-subtle change in her emotions, and wasn’t that truly the reason why she loved him so? Far more than for his name (their name) and his blood (their blood) and his status (<em> their </em>status)? She loved him because he knew her, knew her completely, could read her as easily as he read those history books, could anticipate every storm in her mind and quell her distresses better than anyone else could, better even than her own brothers. </p><p>“You understand my meaning, Walburga?” he asked, his voice low and unsure. </p><p>“I do,” she said softly. She heard, felt, saw the breath catch in his chest. “I shall dance with no other for as long as I live.” </p><p>He gave a sharp nod, satisfied. She took advantage of his momentary distraction to slide her hand just an inch or two over his shoulder, so that her gloved fingertips could feel the warmth of the back of his neck, the softness of where dark hair met pale skin. </p><p>He looked at her, his lips slightly parted, his cheeks slightly flushed - the most emotion Orion ever showed - and this time she was the one rendered breathless. She wondered if this breathlessness, this fluttering in her stomach and her throat, was a mark of the fleeting power of love in youth. She wondered if they would still be able to affect one another in such a way in a year’s time, in ten years, fifty. </p><p>Had her own parents ever gazed into each other’s hearts like this? Had his? </p><p>She felt a slight pressure at her lower back, a heat spreading as he pressed his hand against her, pulling her closer towards him. He leaned forwards so that their cheeks brushed against one another and his breath tickled her ear. </p><p>She hated the loss of control whenever he stepped into her space like this. She hated it, and she loved it. </p><p>“I suppose,” he whispered, “you may dance with our sons.” </p><p><em> Sons </em>. Did he know of her plans? Had he known about her machinations all along? Did he share her desire for their glorious, perfect, twice-Black sons, the culmination of so much destiny, their futures written in the stars and on their great-grandfather’s ballroom ceiling for all to witness?</p><p>She pulled back from him, just far enough for him to see her smile. </p><p>“I shall dance with our sons,” she agreed. “But not like this.” </p><p>“No.” He whirled her around, eliciting an unexpected gasp, and then, if it were possible, pulled her even closer towards him. “Never like this.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>(PRESENT)</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“Mother?” </p><p>Walburga was on her knees on the drawing-room floor, her left hand braced against the tapestry, her fingertips grazing the stitches of her husband’s face and her wedding band scratching against his name. She bowed her head and closed her eyes. She could not bear to hear her son’s reedy, plaintive voice. She could not bear how fundamentally and entirely different he was from what her vision of him had been. From what she needed him to be. </p><p>“Mother, can I— can I talk to you?” </p><p>Why did he always want something from her? Why did everybody always want something - take, take, take, but never giving anything in return? </p><p>“Mother?” he repeated. She could hear him stepping closer towards her. He took a deep breath. “Mother, I will not be returning to Hogwarts.” </p><p>She bit her lip and tried to think about what Orion might say to her if she could complain to him at this moment. She tried to remember what he had said to her, all those times she had lain beside him in their bed, criticising their sons.</p><p>“<em> Regulus is still young,” </em> he would always say. <em> “Give him time.” </em></p><p>There was no time. But he was still young; still impressionable. </p><p>Perhaps she could still tear him away from those monsters who had dared to brand him. Perhaps she could tear Sirius away, too. Perhaps there was still a chance that she could hold both her sons in her arms and hide them away from all those who would do them harm, hide away from the entire world, together, just the three of them, the last of the Blacks. </p><p>“Mother, can you hear me?” Regulus persisted, his voice creeping higher. “I will remain here, with you. Father would want—”</p><p>“Do not speak of him,” she rasped. Her throat was filled with sand. She was drowning in it. </p><p>She could not bear to hear one more person pretend that they knew what Orion would have wanted, pretend that they cared about what was best for her, for Regulus, for any of them. None of them knew. None of them cared. </p><p>Her fingertips curled against the tapestry wall. Her nails caught in the delicate threads, woven centuries ago, ever-shifting, expanding, growing as the family grew. Would it ever grow again? Would Regulus survive long enough to sire the next generation? Would the Grim spare him, and take her? </p><p>She would be with Orion again in the next life. She missed him desperately. Her anchor, her tether, her dear heart had gone and her lifeblood had gone with him, replaced with cold nights and locked doors and an empty seat at the dining table. How could anyone expect her to drag herself along this dreary existence without him?</p><p>“I’m sorry, Mother.” Regulus’s voice had grown quieter, sadder, but she couldn’t bring herself to comfort him when she couldn’t even comfort herself. “Would you— can I bring you something? A— a cup of tea, perhaps? Brandy? Some food, or…?” </p><p>“Did I raise you to be a house-elf?” she snapped.</p><p>“No, Mother, I—” </p><p>“Go, Regulus.” </p><p>There was a heavy pause. She knew he was still there, looming behind her like a miserable little gremlin. She could hear his unsteady breathing, could practically feel the vibrations from his mind whirring, always whirring, but never contributing anything useful. </p><p>“I— I miss him, too,” he whispered. “I miss both of them.” </p><p>“Just go, Regulus.” </p><p>“Yes, Mother. I— I’m sorry.” </p><p>She waited until she heard the drawing-room door close behind him, until the sound of his footsteps retreating upstairs finally ebbed away.</p><p>Only then did she drag her hand down the tapestry, not caring if she caught the delicate enchanted threads in her ragged nails and pulled them loose. Only then did she sit back on her heels, raise her face to the ceiling, and scream. </p><p><br/>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>betaed by the incomparable <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicspacehole/pseuds/magicspacehole">magicspacehole</a> &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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